beloved
by DirigibleBoyKing
Summary: It's the gentlest thing that ever happened to them.


**I.**

'Dude,' says Dean in a faded voice. 'A wendigo.'

The pain in Sam's belly is subsiding now, going numb and dull like as pencil stubs or rusted blades, and he's pretty sure that that's a bad sign. On the other hand, he can make out what Dean's saying for the first time in a while.

'A _fucking_ wendigo.'

Sam groans. 'Dude...' Weak-voiced. Solid warmth of Dean's chest at his back; he can't feel his legs, and that could be from the stomach wound or from the uncomfortable position they're in, Sam's legs stretched out between Dean's across the backseat of the Impala.

He's aware of the sluggish pulse of blood spilling from him, over Dean's hand that's wrapped round him and holding in his guts, and beyond the pain it's the oddest sensation, something past intimacy, past embarassment, past sex or penetration. Dean is literally holding Sam's insides in, and Sam's pretty sure that the pressure that he's putting on Dean's femoral artery by leaning back against him is the only reason Dean didn't bleed out already. His mind's hazy, but he knows the wendigo clawed them both up pretty bad- has hazy recollections of being half-dragged through the snowy forest, of their hot blood kissing the snow, but Dean should be all panic by now, messy tourniquet on his leg and driving them to the hospital.

He must have made a quizzical noise because Dean nuzzles into his hair. The gesture doesn't seem out of place. Outside, it's eight in the morning and snow is falling in quiet swathes; they're parked in a copse of trees that bend over the Impala like slender protective gods, white as the sky.

'Car wouldn't start,' says Dean into the back of his head. He tries to look round, but it sends jags of pain tearing through his middle, and he's left to shudder in Dean's arms and ride it out- _easy, easy, don't move, kiddo, I gotcha_.

'Dean,' he grunts when he can.

Answering nuzzle.

'You're hurt. You need to bandage it up. Tie off the artery if you need to.' He can feel the spreading warm patch as Dean's lifeblood stains them both. Sam's pretty sure he's not leaving this forest himself, hasn't looked down but it's never good news when you need someone to hold your intestines inside for you, and he's already weak, spacing out. But Dean- Dean can be patched up.

'No can do, Sammy. Sorry.'

For a moment the fog clears and he feels a lurch of horror- maybe Dean's hurt worse than he thought- but then he gets it. If Dean so much as moves, Sam'll probably be dead within minutes, and for a moment his throat tightens- Dean's given up so much, denied himself so much, this _cannot_ be the end of the road. Jesus, things were getting better. They'd planned to go see a film on Saturday. Once they got back to the bunker today Sam had been going to try making blueberry pancakes; Dean's never had them homemade before and now he never will. It's the dumbest thing, but it _gets_ to him.

'You're crying.'

He is. 'Dean. You can't do this.'

God, his voice is so gentle.'Yeah, Sammy. I can.'

' _No_.' Sam takes a second to collect himself and takes a breath, wincing around the pain. 'Go. Live. Get a... get a goddamned life. Hell, meet a girl... hit a dog...'

'Sam.'

'If you want, Dean. You can do whatever you- whatever you-' He shudders with a cough, blood spilling from his lips, and Dean's other hand comes up to touch his mouth with infinite tenderness. 'I won't judge you,' he says. 'Or haunt you. Or anything. But- you can do what you want. Just-'

'Just what, Sam?'

Dean needs to stop using that tone. It hurts more than anger could at the moment. Soft, gravelly, as scraped-open as Sam feels.

'Just please don't mark my grave. When you bury me.'

His brother is silent for a long time. The hand not over Sam's belly comes up to his breastbone, folding him carefully closer, as if Dean is trying to take Sam into himself and shelter him there. As if he can put out roots into Sam's body and nourish whatever spark of stubbornness is keeping him from bleeding out already.

(Maybe, if he asks, Dean will plant marigolds on his grave.)

'No,' says Dean. Thoughtful.

'No?'

'I- Sam, I know what you're trying to do here. And God knows I appreciate it. But I'm past that, man, we're past that. And we're not makin' it out of this one.'

' _Dean_.'

'I'm not letting you go again, Sam.'

Sam's eyes sting and well up. He and Dean both have their softnesses, their hollows and hidden places, and in some of these they align like jigsaw pieces. But their mismatched parts are almost more wonderful for being hidden away, and in the times when Dean shows Sam his full hand of cards Sam feels like he's looking through a window at something beyond words.

He tries to find a way to say this and ends up with, 'I should have made you those fucking pancakes.'

Dean snorts against his nape. 'Yeah, dude, that's the grudge I'll carry to my grave.'

'Not. Funny.'

'Kinda funny.'

And what more is there to say? Because if Dean really wants this- wants rest-

Yeah.

For a while, Sam floats in a kind of dreamy suspension, watching the hypnotic whirl of snow. There's an odd quality of light that snow brings to the world, a kind of murmurous radiance, an ethereal pearly glow. _And the twelve gates were twelve pearls, each of the gates made of a single pearl, and the street of the city was pure gold, as clear as glass._

The Impala's innards stink like blood, rich and metallic, Sam's and Dean's mingling on the leather upholstry that Dean had always cared for so well, and he can't help but wonder if his brother knew, all those times he bitched at Sam to take his feet off the seat, knew that this car would be their place of annhilation. Or their place of rest. Maybe nobody will find them. Maybe this is where their skin will split open and breed maggots, where their bones will emerge from sagging skin and fall together so that in a hundred years time it'll be difficult to tell whether this femur was Sam's or Dean's, which skull belonged to whom. Maybe nobody will ever find them, and Sam is surprised at how comforting that idea is. It feels like nobody could. This place seems half a fable.

(And if you could go back, could do it all again- would he change anything? Would he change a single damned thing?)

The pain is nearly gone now. A distant ache. Cradled, he can almost pretend they're children again, and he's got the flu and Dean's kind of coming down with it too but won't admit it and suddenly Sam realises- he can't see Dean's face and he needs to. He needs to hold it in his mind as he dies, and fuck the pain. He begins to twist round, braced for agony, and Dean seems to jolt back to full consciousness, gripping Sam's hip. 'Are you nuts? What are you doing? You're gonna bleed out, for the love of-'

His voice is the strongest its been yet, but Sam ignores it, gritting his teeth in his skull and moving his own bloodstained hands to cover his wound as he shifts. Pain rises like nausea- fuck, don't let him puke, that would actually kill him- but he manages to get up on his knees on the seat, steadying himself with one hand, the other pressed to his stomach. He's got a proper view now, and there's blood just- everywhere. It's in sticky pools on the floor, caked on their skin, blooming darkly over the seats- already drying and flaking off in places. Dean's left pant leg is sodden with it, and his face is stark white, white as dove's feathers or Lilith's eyes. There's blood down one side of his face, as well, and his freckles stand out in stark relief, malachite eyes wide with shock. He looks oddly young, face more vulnerable than in a while, and Sam gets that pulse of fear that the suggestion of Dean's being anything less than invincible always brings. Even after all this time.

He looks down, and there it is- a bloody rip in Dean's jeans, dirty bandage concealing a gash that must have nicked the femoral artery, just as Sam thought.

When he looks back up Dean's got this soft crumpled look on his face and he holds out an arm and pulls Sam in to rest against his side. Dean's hand cradles the back of his head. Nonsensically, Sam thinks that Dean's hands are the only things he's ever felt that are gentler than death.

They've moved into a space beyond words, now, a strange sort of peace. This hush is something untarnished as the snow. _This is the way the world ends/not with a bang but with a whimper._ He imagines that the silence is strung with silver threads of words connecting them in starry glistening strands. _Never leave you_ running from eyes to eyes. _I'm sorry_ tangling at their fingertips, and _it's okay_. As if he's heard, Dean laces their fingers together. This is ridiculous. They're looking each other dead-on in the eyes from two inches apart, and suddenly Sam has to say it.

'Dean?'

'Yeah, Sam?'

'I lo-'

Dean's smile is one of those that he only learned when he started heading into middle-age. _I've got it. I hear you. It's gonna be okay_. But what he says is, 'I know.'

God, he knows. He really does. And maybe they've always been a little bit in love with each other, in the funniest saddest secretest of ways. Maybe that's the answer, after all. Maybe that's all there is to it.

Dean loops his fingers into Sam's hair. All these years and it's that that breaks him, in the end.

 **II.**

Dean wakes with a jolt in the Impala.

For a moment he thinks he dreamed it; there's no blood on the backseat, making the car stink of old pennies. And then he realises he's wearing the amulet and that old leather jacket, and then he gets it.

The engine purrs to life when he turns the key, and he's off down the road, as trusting as he's ever been. And he nearly drives past it, nearly doesn't see the dingy little motel at the side of the road, and when he does see it and pull up outside it doesn't hit him immediately, though something about the look of the motel pulls at his heartstrings.

He picks the door that feels right; it's locked, but the key is in his pocket. Opens it.

When the door swings open, he's hit with a blast of warmth. Some Christmas song is playing overhead. There's a tree hung with air-fresheners in the corner, and eggnog in disposable cups on the table and he realises where they are but that doesn't matter because _there he is and there he is and there he is._

Sam sees him at the same moment. Eyes lock. No blood; no nestling horror deep in those sad sad eyes.

Before either of them even register moving, they're in each other's arms.

Outside the motel, snow is quietly falling.


End file.
